


Gotta Real Good Feelin' (Something Bad's About to Happen)

by grahamhannah53



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha!Hotch, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Badass Reader, David Rossi and Penelope Garcia are Amazing Friends, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Heat Cycles, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, Omegaverse, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Rut, Smut, Soul Bond, Soul Mates AU, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, i tried so hard pls read this, mentions of rape/non-con, omega!reader, reader is a baddie, reader with a Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 09:23:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19423111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grahamhannah53/pseuds/grahamhannah53
Summary: (Y/n) has an ugly, bloody past, and has been living in Quantico, Virginia for a few years, trying to start over and keep her demons at bay. As an omega, she isn't exactly anyone's first pick as a bouncer, but hey, she does her job alright. (Unfortunately, she's not anyone's first pick as a mate either, but she's pretty okay with that for now.) One night, she meets a handsome alpha FBI agent that flips her life over on its head-- in a good way. Probably.Hotch is clueless and still grieving from Haley's death, but meets the reader and things can only go up from rock bottom, right?(AU in which soul mate markings appear only during/after a heat/rut for alphas and omegas, and only in the spot that they first touched their mate.)---------my first a/b/o, be gentle :)





	1. Chapter 1

An electric tingle shot up the base of (y/n)’s spine up to the back of her jaw the second before she heard the warning.

“Knife! That one’s got a knife!”

As fast as thought, (y/n) whirled around to see the man behind her launch himself off of the floor with a blade glinting colourfully in his hand. Before the armed man could lunge for his opponent once more, (y/n) managed to catch his dominant wrist and, after a brief struggle, wrest the knife from his grasp. By that time her backup had arrived, and everything was taken care of.

_ Alphas, _ she thought with slight derision as one of the brawlers was cuffed. _ Brainless assholes, the lot of them. _

All in all it had been a calm night before that brawl. (Y/n) would have gone so far to say it was boring-- boring, peaceful, and almost perfect. Then, as with most things, a pair of bonehead alphas had to come and ruin her nice night just before her shift ended.

(Y/n) sighed, readjusting her vest as she checked the time on the clock behind the bar. Sure enough, her shift had ended during the skirmish, but she knew she’d be there for a good while more filling out paperwork off the clock when she brought a change of clothes  _ specifically  _ for dancing after her shift had ended. She should have seen it coming-- it was always the same whenever she wanted to do something for herself. Smooth sailing until the last five minutes of work, and then it was nothing but stupid bullshit until she was too tired to do anything except collapse on her bed when she got home.

Just as she had finished gathering her paperwork and was heading past the bar to clock out, a hand reached out to touch her shoulder. On instinct, she grabbed the person by the wrist, holding their hand away from her in and unpleasantly tight grip. When (y/n) came to her senses, she dropped the offending hand as though it had burned her, a bright red flush creeping up her neck to her cheeks. She had just grabbed a person by one of the hot-spots for scent glands (a very forward and inappropriate gesture), and the warm scent of alpha and expensive cologne filled her nostrils.

“Sorry,” she muttered, trying to school her expression out of its current sheepish look. “I’m a little jumpy, I guess.”

“It’s alright, I should have known better than to just grab you after a fight like that, but I didn’t know your name,” the male alpha replied, extending his hand to shake. “I’m Aaron Hotchner, FBI. That was good work back there.”

The ‘ _ for an omega’ _ may not have been intentionally implied, but (y/n) understood it nonetheless.

Trying to hide her irritation, (y/n) studied the alpha closely, trying to discern whether or not he was trustworthy. _FBI? Unlikely,_ she thought, but shook his hand anyway. “It’s my job. If I was bad at it they’d fire me.”

“Either way, you have excellent instincts,” he continued, never breaking eye contact, looking at her as though he were searching for something. “I called out to warn you about the knife, but by the time I got half of the word out, you were already on him again.”

“Oh, that was you!” (Y/n) smiled, genuinely pleased. “Thank you-- not a lot of people do much more than spectate in those kinds of fights. Not that we recommend involvement, but it is nice to have someone watching your back instead of being afraid or entertained.”

“No need to thank me,” Aaron Hotchner replied with a strange smile. “It’s my job.”

(Y/n) looked away, feeling rather awkward and unsure of how to end the conversation well. 

“Well, thanks anyway,” she managed, shooting him a small smile. “I’ve got to clock out and start on this paperwork, so, uh, I guess I’ll see you around. It was nice meeting you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he replied, and (y/n) felt a familiar tingle up her spine.

“ _ Alphas, _ ” she grumbled to herself as she walked away. “Nothing but trouble.”

  
  


***

  
  


When Hotch agreed to go out for “a few drinks” with the team, this was certainly not what he meant. Of course, he expected an over-the-top experience since it was Garcia’s night to make plans- Hotch knew just as well as everyone else that the quirky queen of technology never,  _ ever _ did things by halves- but he never expected to be assaulted nostril-first with the scent of pure omega mixed with alcohol and cigarettes. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have been bothered by it, mostly because the omega smell was definitely made partly of scent-enhancing perfumes which were always too strong to be pleasant, but it was two weeks until is rut, which he would be spending alone and lonely.

He could blame Haley's death for that, but he had been spending ruts his alone long before that, and in his personal  _ and _ professional opinion, self-deception was a stepping stone on the path to self-destruction.

“Y’know, Aaron, you don’t have to dance in order to have a good time at a club,” Rossi advised, interrupting Hotch’s thoughts.

Hotch shook his head. “I don’t like clubs.”

“Have you ever considered that may be because you sit at the bar and drink like a sad, lonely bastard?”

“You mean like this?” Hotch smiled slightly, lifting his glass.

Rossi let loose an only partially feigned exasperated sigh. “Yes, exactly like that.” Less teasing now, Rossi moved a bit closer to sit beside his team leader at the bar. “Hotch, I know you’re still reeling from Haley’s death-- anybody would be. But I think you should at least try to socialize with an actual human being.”

“I talk to you,” Hotch defended weakly, but Rossi shook his head.

“No, I ask and you know you know I can profile the answer out of you anyway, so you tell me,” Rossi shot back with a knowing look. “Now, I know that in the Alphabetic Arrangement of Alliterative Associations of Aaron, it clearly states that ‘Bars are for Brooding’, but I wish you would take this time to talk to someone, anyone, really  _ talk _ . I don’t think you’ve been openly social as long as I’ve known you. You and I are both alphas, and there is a certain burden that comes with that, but we need others as much as they need us. Remember that.”

With that sage advice, Rossi clapped Hotch on the back and returned to where he was sitting with a woman nearly half his age.

_ I can talk to people _ , Hotch told himself.  _ It’s not as though I’m a recluse _ .

To his credit, Hotch tried very hard to muster up the energy to start a conversation. He even nodded in greeting to a cute, blonde beta that was ordering drinks beside him. His ridiculous profiler brain wouldn’t shut up long enough for him to stop making judgement calls on people and  _ start _ talking to them. Of course, he was grateful for said brain, but sometimes he wondered if it was worth being paid to see the worst in people if he couldn’t turn it off. 

Really and truthfully, the closest Hotch had come to enjoying himself that evening was watching and talking to that bouncer. He hadn’t caught her name, but even as he watched Morgan and Garcia giggle as they joined a grind line, all he could think about was the way she’d interacted with him. Usually, Hotch’s interactions with women went one of two ways-- either they were attracted to or intimidated by him. This one was different, though. She just seemed… tired. It was admittedly a little strange, to be more comfortable with someone that was indifferent to him than someone who was falling all over him, but it was a welcome change to the monotony that had become his life.

As weird as it was, Hotch wanted to know more about this lady bouncer than any woman who had approached him that night.

All of a sudden, Hotch heard a voice that called him out of his thoughts.

“I’ll have a peach bourbon iced tea, please,” Hotch heard a sweet voice order beside him. “I need a little kick to make it through this paper work.”

Hotch turned to see who it was that had spoken, and it was none other than the bouncer from earlier, changed into plain clothes that were stylish, yet appeared quite comfy. She laughed at something the bartender said, and then took out a pen and began to focus intently on her paperwork, which Hotch took as an opportunity to study her.

Whether she was alpha, beta or omega, he couldn’t tell-- she wasn’t close enough, and the scent enhancers around him confused his nose-- but even in the dim lighting, her features were well-defined and proportionate enough to be considered lovely. Beyond that, though, there was something in her countenance that gave Hotch an inclination to think that she was exceptionally beautiful. As she rolled her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration, Hotch wondered if he should stop staring at her or say something or both.

“If you take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

_ Right,  _ Hotch thought as he cleared his throat.  _ This is going to go just great. _

“Sorry. It seems I’ve made a bit of an ass of myself again,” he admitted, opting to take the high road of honesty as she looked up from her work with startlingly bright eyes. “I’m usually a lot more subtle when it comes to behavior analysis, but I think the beer might be taking over at this point.”

“Behavior analysis?” she cocked an eyebrow, an amused smile playing at her lips. “Is that what you do for the FBI?”

“I can show you my badge if you’d like.”

The girl laughed, actually laughed, and shook her head. “What a  _ line _ .”

It was at this point that Hotch began to doubt that he was being taken seriously. “I didn’t mean anything untoward,” he replied with a frown. “I assure you that I was being completely literal.”

She shrugged. “It’s not a bad card, or an uncommon one. I’m sure it’s gotten you laid pretty often around here.”

It wasn’t meant to be rude or offensive and Hotch knew it, but somehow the small, masochistic voice in the back of his head got the microphone that controlled his mouth and he said,

“My wife died about five months ago.”

Without another word, he flashed his badge, and the bouncer just looked at him, dumbfounded.

After a long moment, she lowered her eyes to the ground, looking contrite. 

“I’m sorry. Truly, deeply sorry,” she said, breaking the silence. “I had no idea, but I was so insensitive…”

“It’s fine,” Hotch sighed as he put away his badge. “You couldn’t have known, and I’m sure you get plenty of insincere suitors trying to pick you up with a little white lie.”

“It’s no excuse,” she grimaced. “I’ve made an ass of myself without even so much as introducing myself properly.

The corner of Hotch’s lips twisted upward. “I think I know how you can remedy that.”

“My name is (F/n)(L/n),” she half-smiled. “And you’re Aaron Hotchner, FBI.”

“You can call me Hotch. Pretty much everyone does, especially my team.”

(Y/n)’s brows raised in surprise. “Team?”

“Yes, the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m here with them tonight, actually.”

“Wow,” (y/n) laughed. “I’d have figured you for the ‘I work alone’ type.”

Hotch couldn't help but think of a book he had read to Jack recently--one of Jack’s favorites-- called the King With Six Friends. The book was about how everyone needs friends, even kings, and it had resonated with Hotch deeply Unfortunately, he didn't think (y/n) would understand an allusion to a children's book so he just shook his head.

Things were silent for a moment, and Hotch was considering ordering something else off of the snack menu when (y/n) looked over and spoke to him once again.

“I'm almost finished with this paperwork. Do you want to go outside where we can actually hear each other and talk?”

Did he? Hotch wasn't sure if that was an invitation for talking or for more than talking, but something told him to say yes.

“Sure.”

True to her word, (y/n) was finished rather quickly with her paperwork and they headed outside to sit on the benches provided there. In the warm summer air, he was able to really catch a whiff of her scent, and it was something like strawberry wine and springtime and  _ omega _ . 

“Can I ask you a personal question?” (y/n) asked once they’d settled comfortably onto the bench.

“I don’t see why not,” Hotch said in reply, staring out at the street lights that cast a golden glow about them.

“You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to but... do you miss the bond? I didn't think they broke like that even after death but I don't...” she wrinkled her nose and sniffed, then shrugged.

She didn’t smell that Hotch was bonded. Well, he had an easy answer for that.

“Haley and I were never bonded. She wasn’t my mate, and I wasn’t hers,” Hotch admitted. “But we fell in love in high school, and I never wanted anyone else.”

“That’s so romantic,” (y/n) smiled softly, practically glowing with the wonderful wistfulness that Hotch hadn't previously thought her capable of. “What was she like?”

“She was strong, independent-- had to be. I was-- am-- hardly ever home,” Hotch replied, feeling a little sick. “She raised our son Jack all by herself and did a fantastic job.”

“How old is he now?” (y/n) asked gently, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. 

“He just turned five.”

Hotch felt more than saw (y/n)’s smile. “That's a fun age. Big enough to wipe their butt and small enough to be cute”

“You're right,” Hotch cracked the slightest grin. “He is a lot of fun. I feel bad for not being with him tonight, but I was threatened into coming along with my team.”

“I think they might have been right to threaten you, especially if you're trying to raise him on your own,” (y/n) mused. “Even you big, bad FBI boys need time away.”

Hotch didn't really have a reply, but (y/n) didn't seem to want or expect one. She did, however, reach over and place a hand on top of his. It was a simple gesture, really-- chaste, comforting-- yet the intimacy of that small, seemingly insignificant moment of physical contact struck Hotch like a blow to the chest. They sat like that for a while, her hand on his, in comfortable silence as they watched cars go by.

After an indiscernible amount of time, (y/n) broke the silence.

“Do you believe in coincidences?”

The question caught Hotch by surprise. Nevertheless, it took only a few seconds to come up with an answer.

“I can't.”

(Y/n) chuckled giving him a bewildered look. “That's a strange response.”

_ If you think that's weird you should meet my team _ , he thought. “What about you? Do you believe in coincidence?”

“Actually, I'm not sure," she replied pursing her lips in thought. "Sometimes life doesn't have any rhyme or reason, and other times I feel like there's a hand pulling and pushing, arranging and rearranging, in some ever-changing pattern to suit some cosmic purpose that I'm not sure actually exists.”

“I guess that's fair”

While Hotch’s brain was chewing on that t-bone steak-sized food for thought, he failed to notice that his team had exited the club and were making their way towards him. Luckily (or perhaps unluckily) (y/n) didn't seem to be quite as distracted. She elbowed him lightly in the side, nodding to the approaching profilers.

“Looks like your friends are here,” she smiled, releasing his hand and standing to leave.

Before Hotch could reply, Garcia was on him like white on rice. 

“Hotch, there you are! You had us all worried, and no one had seen you and--”

Garcia's worried chatter came abruptly to a halt as she and (y/n) locked eyed. Hotch, confused as could be, looked to (y/n), who smiled sheepishly.

“Hi Penelope.”

As if on cue, both women squealed and embraced one another as the rest of the team exchanged looks.

“Look at you pretty Penny, you're practically glowing!”

“And you, my legging-clad love, are truly radiant!" Garcia giggled.

“Is anyone going to tell me what I'm missing here?” Morgan asked, lifting a dark brow.

“Oh, guys, this is a very good friend of mine,” Penelope beamed. “We were roommates back when we were... Well, we went through a lot.”

Prentis elbowed Morgan and muttered “Oh my God they were roommates”

Everyone laughed except Hotch and Rossi, who obviously missed something.

“Anyway this is Dr. Spencer Reid, master magician and… master of everything else.” Garcia began with a laugh. “Jennnifer Jereaux, light of my life, Emily Prentiss, my queen, Derek Morgan, AKA sexy hunk of good loving--”

“Easy baby girl, we’re in public,” Morgan winked.

Garcia rolled her eyes and continued. “David Rossi, resident romantic Italian man, and I take it you've already met our friendly neighborhood bossman.”

(Y/n) looked up at Hotch with wide, innocent eyes and nodded, confirming her answer with him. “We've been acquainted for an hour or so.”

The team exchanged looks, and Hotch wished he could melt into a puddle and disappear.

_ I hate profilers,  _ he thought miserably.

(Y/n), bless her, remained oblivious and simply chattered on. “Well, it’s nice meeting all of you. Are you about to leave?”

“Yeah, we are,” Garcia replied with an exaggerated frown. “We were just checking to make sure everyone had a ride home. Derek and Emily are leaving with, ah, new friends, and Rossi is dropping Reid off by his place and me by mine, so we decided to make sure you weren't coming along, Hotch, before we left.”

“No, I'll come with,” Hotch replied, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ve had a little too much to drink to be driving.”

“That’s all good, well, and fine,” (y/n) interjected, “But I’m not leaving without a certain pretty lady’s number.” With that, she winked and exchanged numbers with Garcia before embracing one last time and bidding everyone good night.

  
  


***

The rest of the night was confusing for Hotch. By the time he got home, he was completely sober, so he took the time to read to Jack, who had faked sleep while Haley’s sister was keeping him. By the time Jack was asleep, Hotch was nearly asleep himself, and as soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell asleep and dreamed of bar fights and strobe lights, but slept well for the first time in a long time.

Maybe human interaction was good sometimes. And, truthfully… maybe profilers  _ didn’t  _ count as humans.


	2. Chapter 2

Almost every day for the next two weeks, Aaron Hotchner fought the urge to ask Garcia for (y/n)'s phone number. He wasn't sure what he would say to her when he did text, but it would be something along the lines of “Come to dinner with me, but not like a date kind of dinner, a friend dinner.” It sounded just as lame out loud as it did in his head, so he never asked and instead focused on catching killers and imbibing way too much shitty coffee for his own good. Sure, there were other things to focus on, like how everyone pretended that Reid wasn't angry at J.J., and that Morgan wasn't still traumatized by the fact that Prentiss was alive, but it was fine. Totally fine. Definitely fine. For sure, fine.

That is, until things chose not to be fine, in which case things were definitely the opposite of fine. And of course, as usual, things chose not to be fine at the worst time they possibly could.

It all started the day Hotch went into pre-rut.

Haley’s sister, who was supposed to help keep Jack for the duration of the rut, caught a virus that had been going around at her job. Hotch got her call around 7 o'clock that morning, and his mind immediately begin spinning in unproductive circles that he knew were common during such hormones spikes. He was irritated to begin with that his team--  _ his pack _ \-- would be on a case without him for a week or so, and now with the pressure of finding someone to take care of Jack upon him, he felt incredibly overwhelmed.

And, as he did in every overwhelming situation involving a manhunt, Hotch decided to tap into his best resource: Penelope Garcia.

“Garcia, are you busy with a case right now?”

“No, not particularly,” came her sunshine-y reply. “What can I help you with, sir?”

Hotch sighed. “I need you to find a sitter for Jack. His aunt got sick and I can’t even think properly because--”

“Gotcha,” Garcia cut him off, obviously uncomfortable talking about his rut. “This beta doesn’t need to hear anything more. I think I actually know someone who would meet all your requirements. I’ll call ahead and send you the address.”

“Thanks, Garcia,” Hotch replied with sincere gratitude.

“Anytime. Penny G. out.”

  
  


***

  
  


As (y/n) enjoyed a pleasant lunch, happy to be off work for the day, an uneasy feeling settled over her-- a familiar feeling that told her something was about to happen. Some days, she wondered if she needed to have her head checked, but the feeling was never, ever wrong, and it had saved her ass a couple times as well. All that was left to do was wait and see what was going to happen.

As if on cue, her cell phone dinged, and a message from Penelope Garcia appeared.

**Pretty Penny** :  _ This is your warning shot, sweetness ;) Trouble is on the way to see you-- the good kind. _

_ Odd,  _ (y/n) thought, wondering what her friend had meant.  _ I hope she’s not trying to matchmake again. How awkward would that be? _

Fortunately for her propensity to be impatient, it didn’t take long for (y/n) to understand. Hardly five minutes, later her door slammed open, and thanks to her paranoia and lightning-fast reflexes, whoever was there took a plate to the head before (y/n) had even realized that she had moved.    
  
“Ow, God, that hurt,” none other than Aaron Hotchner swore as he rubbed his head. 

(Y/n) didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

What were the odds of the alpha that she’d been thinking about for weeks now just popping up at her little duplex without even bothering to knock? (Y/n) just sat there, staring at him until her eyes caught up with her brain, and she jumped to her feet with an apology on her lips, but then a wave of scent hit her and she  _ knew _ . Her heart pounded in her chest and her pulse throbbed in her dry throat as she felt sickened at the thought of a different alpha in a different state at a different time. 

_ No, no, no, not again, I can’t handle it again, I can’t-- _

“(Y/n), I’m really sorry about your door, I meant to just try the handle but I--” Hotch stopped mid-sentence, undoubtedly noticing her state of panic. “Hey, are you okay?”

As those words snapped into place, (y/n)’s mind also came back to the present, registering the alpha before her not as a threat, but as an acquaintance. 

“Yeah, uh, what are you doing here?” she asked, her words feeling like a ball of bread in her mouth.

“I need to ask a favor of you,” Hotch replied, sweat dripping from his forehead. “Garcia told me you could help.”

_ Garcia!  _ (y/n) thought, relaxing a bit.  _ This must have been what she was talking about… but what could he need that isn’t… that? _

After a brief moment of thought, (y/n) decided that it didn’t matter. For some inexplicable, unfounded reason, she would do whatever Hotch needed, despite the natural urge to flee from an unbonded alpha in rut. “Anything,” she answered, and he nodded gratefully.

“I need a sitter for Jack,” he panted, obviously struggling with late-stage pre-rut. “His aunt is sick and I don’t really have anyone to watch him. He’s a good kid, no allergies, and there’s enough food at the house for Pharaoh's army--”

“Let me get a bag,” (y/n) cut him off, understanding. Having a rut, she understood, was bad enough as it is, but to have that rut with your cub in the house? Not a great idea. “Is he with you now? If so and you don't think you can wait, he can stay here with me.”

"No… Not in this neighborhood."

….Yeah okay, that was fair.

"I'll just be a minute then," (y/n) replied, slipping down the hall. "You can just wait for me in the car."

As Hotch shut the door behind him, (y/n) found herself wishing she had the time to spare to figure out what in the hell had just happened to her.

***

  
  


“Jack, buddy, this is (y/n). Can you say hi to (y/n)?”

“Hi (y/n),” Jack smiled from his car seat. 

Hotch gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were stark white against the black leather interior of the vehicle. Through his haze of want (which was quickly turning into a haze of need), he could smell the apprehension rolling off of the omega beside him in waves. She sat as far away from him as possible, nearly melting into the door as she likely fought her every instinct just to stay in the car. Hotch had given up trying to get rid of his raging erection, and it was a strain to try to keep his pheromones under control, but if he could just make it home and get the very pretty, very unavailable omega out of his car, he would be fine. 

Hopefully he would make it to the hotel reservation he made in enough time that he wouldn’t make a mess in the car. 

“Are you sure you should be driving?” (y/n) asked warily, eyeballing his grip on the steering wheel with wide eyes. 

“I’m fine,” Hotch ground out.

“Are you sure? I can drive if you need, I’m super careful and--”

Frustrated, Hotch all but growled. “A boner is not a medical condition, I’m fine to do anything until my full rut hits.”

As soon as the statement was out of his mouth, he regretted it. It was crude and uncalled for and downright impolite, especially to someone who he’d only met twice now and had agreed to babysit his son. Hotch braced himself for a well deserved tongue-lashing, but instead, (y/n) only chuckled.

“If you say so,” she grinned with a hint of mischief. “But now you-know-who is going to be asking what a b-o-n-e-r is if you keep throwing the word around.”

Hotch wanted to put his whole foot in his mouth. Jack was a very observant child, and there was no way he hadn’t heard the word and wouldn’t ask what it meant.

“You don’t have to tell him when he asks you what it means,” he sighed, a little comforted by the fact that (y/n) seemed to unstick ever-so-slightly from the side of the car.

“When, not if?” she giggled.

“Yes, when. Jack is worse than the cat that curiosity killed.”

(Y/n) smiled gently, and though Hotch could still feel her wariness, she placed a hand over his at the wheel. Suddenly, thankfully, some of the heat beneath his skin relented at her touch, and Hotch couldn’t contain a half-groan, half-sigh of relief. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him. You take care of yourself and don’t worry about us. I’m great with kids.” She paused for a moment, unmoving. “Does this help? The-the contact?”

Hotch chuckled, albeit still a little strained. “Perceptive, are we?” he joked, hoping the pre-rut flush to his cheeks was enough to hide his red-faced embarrassment. 

“No offense, hun, but you’re about a subtle as a car bomb at the moment,” she laughed, rubbing her thumb in soothing circles on his hand. “If it’s anything like a heat… I understand.”

Such kindness from a stranger who was in equal parts sardonic and sweet, abrasive and gentle-- it made even less sense to Hotch now than it had before. 

After painstakingly heavy traffic and many questions from (y/n) about Jack's preferences, they finally arrived at Hotch’s place. As soon as (y/n)'s hand moved away from his own, his blood all but burst into flames. Every movement was something of a struggle, and Hotch grimaced as he felt all the more close to his rut.

“You be good for (y/n), okay?” he instructed as he embraced Jack. “Make sure she knows she's welcome to anything in the house that she may need or want.”

“Okay, daddy,” Jack grinned. “I love you.”

“I love you too buddy. Now go ahead and show (y/n) your dinosaur collection,” Hotch said with a smile. “I’m sure she’s dying to see it.”

“I do love dinosaurs,” (y/n) prompted, holding out her hand for Jack to take. 

As soon as the door to the house closed Hotch floored the gas. It was almost time, and the hotel was still a couple blocks away. His rut was starting to set in nicely, and it was all Hotch could do to keep from palming himself as he drove.

Admittedly, it was a close thing. By the time Hotch got his key and made it to his floor, his tie, suit jacket, and belt were already off. He didn't even make it all the way to the bed before all of his clothes hit the ground. With a few fervent, heated tugs, Hotch knew there was no way he was going to be able to retain clear thought for very much longer, so he just laid back and let his mind wander to what it would, hoping that maybe it had better ideas than he did about a good time.

Before long, he was lost to the rhythm of the rut, and the lust took over entirely. Visions flashed behind his eyes, and with every blink, flashes of bare skin and sweat and blood and bonds assaulted him. He could hardly breathe through it all, the ache of arousal, the exacerbating stab of loneliness in his gut threatening to rise up into his throat and out of his mouth-- it was all too much. 

And then, and long last, his mind latched onto a thought that could be considered safe. 

(Y/n).

He imagined it was her gentle touch instead of his punishingly harsh strokes on his hard cock. They were perfect strangers, but somehow he was able to envision her bare, exploring his mouth with her tongue as she rode him, yanking his hair and raking her nails down his flesh. The image of her in his mind was so perfect that he could think of nothing else but her.

Throughout the next few hours, orgasm after orgasm washed over him as he replayed the same fantasy in mind and came with the same name on his lips.

“(Y/n), (y/n), (y/n).”

  
  


***

  
  


“Beyonce?”

“Mhm. That’s what dad likes to listen to when he’s cleaning.”

(Y/n) was doing everything she could to keep herself from laughing until she cried. Serious, macho-man, alpha male Aaron Hotchner, a fan of Queen Bey herself?  _ Priceless  _ information.

“Mom didn’t like Beyonce,” Jack continued as he used his T-Rex to eat a pterodactyl. “She said it was stupid.”

(Y/n) frowned at that. She wished she could press the subject, but she had learned to keep her nose out of other people’s business. Still, it was an interesting thing to consider, Hotch’s married life.

“Well, enough about that,” she replied, setting down her stegosaurus. “Are you hungry?”

“That depends,” Jack smiled impishly, looking up from his toys to fix her with his brilliant blue gaze. “Are you going to make me eat broccoli?”

(Y/n) threw her head back and laughed. Kids, man. 

“Not if you don’t want it, but you do have to eat some vegetables,” she replied breathlessly once she’d settled down. “How do you feel about green beans?”

“Those are okay.”

“Well, how about I put on a show for you to watch while I go cook?” she suggested, and Jack lit up.

“Can it be Judge Judy?” he pleaded with excitement. “Please, please,  _ please _ ?”

“Wha- actually, you know what, never mind,” (y/n) chucked, incredulous. “It doesn’t even come on in the evenings.”

“Dad has it recorded because it’s my favorite!”

(Y/n) fought to keep her jaw attached to her face.  _ What kind of kid watches Judge Judy?  _

“Do you know how to find it?”

“Mhm,” Jack replied, already fiddling with the remote. 

“Okay, well, you have fun, sweetie, I’m gonna cook some supper.”

_ So, so weird, but I should have expected as much _ , (y/n) thought as she busied herself in the kitchen.  _ He must have the FBI gene passed down to him from his dad. _

As (y/n) set about making supper, she noticed that the house was full of food, and name-brand everything. She couldn’t help but think of the late Mrs. Hotchner, and what her life might have been like. The house was beautiful, spacious, and pristine-- (y/n) had no doubt she would have wanted for nothing. As it was, (y/n) struggled to pay her bills and make the rent in her shitty little apartment. Despite working as hard as she could, she could hardly keep up with everything at once. It would have it must have been nice to be Mrs. Hotchner.

Until she died, of course. 

Not to mention that Aaron Hotchner sure didn't seem too terrible a specimen as a partner either-- he sure was handsome enough with that jet black hair and those heated amber eyes... And that serious frown! Lord, he could make brooding look even better than any Hollywood actor. To think that he’d chosen someone who wasn't is mate to live his life with, to have a pup with, to love purely and faithfully… It was nearly unthinkable.

And more than that, even in the haze of rut, and even with (y/n)’s past, Hotch had felt… safe.

_ Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. _

(Y/n)’s phone buzzed on the counter, and she looked over to find three messages from an unsaved number

**Unknown:** _ Hey, it’s Hotch. _

**Unknown:** _ Sorry for surprising you with this today. Do you have any shifts this week that you need to make? _

**Unknown:** _ If so, I can figure something out _ .

(Y/n) smiled as she added him to her contacts and typed out her reply.

**(Y/n):** _ Sounds like you’re feeling better. I can get my shifts covered for the week- I have friends who owe me big time. _

A minute later, her phone buzzed again,

**Aaron Hotchner:** _ If you change your mind, let me know. If you tell me how much, I’ll pay you what you would’ve made this week plus a little extra for your trouble. _

**(Y/n):** _ Okay, sure. Have fun dealing with biology. _

**Aaron Hotchner:** _ Doubtful, but I’ll give it my best effort. I’ll be in touch when I can. _

**(Y/n):** _ Okay.  _


	3. Chapter 3

By the end of the week, Hotch wasn't sure what to make of (y/n). In the blink of an eye, she could turn from sweet to cynical, from cynical to sentimental, and keeping up with her was a challenge and yet surprisingly enjoyable. It had been a long time since Hotch had spoken (or, rather, texted) so freely with someone. Truly, it was… it was nice. 

As Hotch made his way back to his house, he discovered that he felt almost… sad. (Y/n) would no longer have a reason to text him, nor he her, unless he wanted to talk about his rut…

Which he was never,  _ ever _ going to do.

This rut was by far the weirdest thing Hotch had ever experienced-- and he had experienced some weird shit in his life. The entire time he’d been in rut, his hand had been irritated and itchy. He hadn't noticed it until after the initial spike of hormones, but after that it had burned like wildfire, and now a subtle marking-- a few lines of raised skin in the shape of a rose-- had blossomed on his palm, which could only mean one thing…

Hotch had touched his mate.

But how? And when? And who? He shook dozens of people's hand on a daily basis. What if it had been one of the criminals he'd restrained, or someone across the nation? And more importantly did he even want--or care-- to know?

Now was so not a good time to be discovering his mate. Hotch was still heartbroken, still reeling from his divorce, from Haley's death-- he wasn't sure if he'd ever be okay again. Not to mention that it wasn't exactly fair to bring another adult into Jack’s life and explain why he was replacing Haley with a perfect stranger. It was a good thing that the mark was in such a discreet place. It would be a disaster if it were somewhere more prominent. Sure, it was visible on his palm, but not many people were observant enough to actually notice anything on the palm of someone’s hand unless they held it out directly.

Too bad Hotch worked with a whole team of people that were literally paid to be that observant.

When Hotch put his car in park, Jack was already halfway to him and (y/n) stood at the door looking on with a tired smile.

(Y/n), who had haunted his rut Like some erotic goddess. (Y/n), whose touch alone could make him  _ feel _ things.

“You look like you feel better,” she greeted him with a sly grin.

“And you look like you feel worse,” he laughed, noting the bags under her eyes. “Was he any trouble?”

“Those, sir, are entirely my own fault,” she clarified, letting out an  _ oomph _ as Jack collided with her legs, giggling. “Jack and I stayed up all night last night watching the Golden Girls.”

Hotch felt his eyebrows raise in amusement. “Did you, now?”

Jack nodded with a silly grin. “I like Blanche!”

Hotch let out a chuckle, ruffling his son’s hair. “Of course you do.”

At that, (y/n)’s eyes sparkled with merriment, and Hotch found himself wishing he had a camera. She really was a lovely woman, truly.

“Say Jack, why don't you head on inside? I'll turn around and count to ten and I'll try to find you when I'm done,” Hotch said, and Jack beamed.

“Hide-and-seek! Yay!”

“You’ve got a great kid, you know that?” (y/n) intoned with a gentle smile as Jack disappeared inside the house. “Better than any of my friends’ kids, that’s for sure.” 

Hotch only shrugged. “I can;t take credit for that.”

(Y/n)’s eyes flashed with an emotion that he couldn’t detect, but then it was gone, the secret of its nature with it. “But can’t you? You are all he has now. He almost reveres you.”

“Well,” Hotch cleared his throat, knowing he was approaching dangerous territory. “I’m… away a lot, which led from one problem to another when Haley was...”

He paused, struggling to find the words. 

“Alive?” (y/n) prompted softly.

“Leaving me.”

(Y/n)’s eyebrows narrowed in confusion. “But why would anyone ever--”

Suddenly, (y/n) clamped her mouth shut, a blush staining her cheeks. 

“I have something for you,” Hotch began abruptly, filling the awkward silence. “Hopefully it’s enough.”

He handed (y/n) the wad of cash he’d withdrawn from the ATM on the way back home, and her eyes went as wide as saucers.

“Hotch, I can't take all that,” she swallowed thickly. “Really, it was no trouble.”

“(Y/n), you did me a favor,” he insisted firmly, hoping his ‘team leader voice’ would work in this situation as well as it did in the field. “I want to show my appreciation.”

“Hotch, I--”

“Nope.”

“Aaron,” she sighed, and Hotch’s brain short-circuited for a moment.

He inexplicably wanted to  _ howl  _ at the way his name sounded on her lips. Low in his belly, he felt a familiar pang, and it was all he could do to maintain his dignity in front of the lovely omega who was testing his… his _ everything _ .

“(Y/n), I will never forgive you if you don’t accept this compensation,” Hotch told her with mock severity as his brain came back online. “Seriously, there is nothing that I will use this money on. Take it.”

(Y/n) though for a moment, looking rather distressed, but in the end, she gave in. 

“Fine, Hopscotch, you win.”

Objectively, Hotch knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“ _ What _ did you just call me?” he demanded, incredulous.

(Y/n) grinned. “Hopscotch.”

“No.”

“If I have to keep the money, you have to let me call you Hopscotch.”

It was that moment that Hotch knew he’d been had.

“It appears as though I have been,” he replied slowly in defeat. “In Jack’s words… bamboozled.”

(Y/n) cackled, obviously having come in contact with Jack’s inventive vocabulary. “Indeed.”

It was then that Hotch noticed (y/n)’s packed bag at her feet, and remembered what he was supposed to be doing. 

“Well, if that’s settled and you don't want to stay for dinner...” Hotch trailed off, waiting for a response.

“Oh, thank you. I really would stay, except I've got some errands to run,” she replied with a slight grimace. “I do appreciate the offer though.”

“You’re welcome any time,” Hotch said, and found that he truly, truly meant it. “Thanks again for helping me out. I don't know what I would have done if Garcia hadn't pointed me in your direction.”

“You’re welcome” (y/n) smiled sweetly. “See you around, Hopscotch.”

Hotch found himself wishing he had more time to process what in the hell he was feeling, but unfortunately, a game of hide-and-seek was higher up on the priority list at the moment.

_ Parent first, feel things later. _

  
  


***

  
  


"Penelope, no, we didn't do anything like that," (y/n laughed over her mimosa. "I literally just babysat." 

"And I suppose you didn't notice the mark on his palm when he got back, did you?" Garcia smirked.

"Actually, no," (y/n) frowned, puzzled. "What mark? Like,  _ the  _ mark?"

Garcia dipped her head in a knowing nod. 

"Wow."

Wow was an understatement. (Y/n) was reeling.

She and Hotch had been texting an awful lot since his rut-- it was nice having someone to talk to. He hadn't mentioned anything about it, nor had (y/n) noticed the mark when he got home. Which, he had no reason to tell her anything, but still… It wasn't as though it were some small, trifling matter that could be swept under the rug to be dealt with another time. 

Poor Hotch… to have his wife leave him, then die, and now he's found out that he's come in contact with his mate? (Y/n) couldn't imagine what she'd do in that situation.

"No kidding," Garcia continued with complete disregard for (y/n)'s concerned expression. "So, you wanna know who I think it is?"

"Should I even ask?" (Y/n) groaned, knowing from Garcia's evil grin that she wasn't going to like the answer. 

"I think that it's you," Garcia replied simply, biting into her chicken wrap.

"Uh, no."

"No?" Garcia laughed through her food. "What do you mean, 'no'? What about it doesn't make sense?"

(Y/n) felt no inclination to close her mouth, scandalized. "The better question is what about that  _ does _ make sense?"

"You are the first human person outside of Jack and our profession that I have seen him speak to and not look like he was trying to pass a kidney stone."

"Don't you have to be human to be a person?" (Y/n) chuckled, deflecting. 

"Not my point," Garcia replied. "The mark is on his palm. Where did you first touch?"

(Y/n) shook her head. "I am  _ not _ playing this game with you."

"Why not?" Garcia pouted, folding her arms stubbornly. 

"Because he probably shakes a billion hands a day. There's no  _ way _ it could be me," (y/n) protested. "Who says it isn't someone a thousand miles away."

"Ahh, but think about this-- how many times to palms actually touch when you shake hands?" Garcia queried with a raised brow. "It would be far more likely that his hand would be laid flat to acquire such a mark."

"So his mate is a serial killer he tried to restrain, a victim he laid a hand on to comfort-- I don't care  _ who _ it is, but it most certainly isn't me," (y/n) fussed, growing irritated at the suggestion, mostly because she was doing everything within her power to keep herself from wishing her friend was right. 

It wasn't that she was in love with Hotch-- really, it wasn't. She had only just become acquainted with him. But there was something about him, about the way he would text her every day, wishing her good morning at five in the afternoon because she would get up about that time to make the night shift at the club, the way he'd tell her about his day and ask her about her own. It was so, so nice to finally feel cared about. (Y/n) hadn't felt cared about for a very long time, especially not since the incident, and to have someone to consistently show interest in her well-being was heart-wrenchingly wonderful. She never wanted it to end. For the first time since the incident, she actually  _ wanted  _ a mate, wanted someone to want her. 

And if tall, dark, handsome Hotch would want her, then who was she to deny him?

"Hotch's mate  _ couldn't _ be a killer," Garcia argued as she munched. "He has too high of a moral standard for that."

"And there's the crux of it-- I am one."

Garcia frowned. "That doesn't count. Hotch has fired bullets for the same reasons."

"Not the same thing."

"(Y/n), no one ever blamed you for that except you," Garcia replied, taking (y/n)'s hand in her own. "It's time you forgave yourself."

(Y/n) swallowed thickly. "Two wrongs don't make a right, and I have never been the forgiving type."

At that, Garcia leaned back in her seat and raised an eyebrow. "You are not allowed to self-pity over my delicious brunch. The negative energy makes everything taste bad and I'll not abide an angel playing devil's advocate." 

"I'm far from an angel," (y/n) muttered, staring miserably at her drink. 

"That's not what Hotch says," Garcia smirked. 

"Oh? And what does he say?" (Y/n) queried, her interest reluctantly piqued.

  
  


***

  
  


"... And I've  _ never _ met anyone that could type so fast in all my life," Hotch sighed. "She's just so different. I enjoy her immensely."

"Sounds like a peach," Rossi chuckled. "Are you sure she's got nothing to do with the reason you've started wearing gloves?"

Hotch shook his head. "I'm not sure. I'm not even sure I'm going to look into it."

"Just because Haley--"

"It's not about Haley," Hotch interjected. "It's about Jack." 

Rossi paused, thinking for a moment. "You don't think they'd get along?" 

"No, of course they'd get along, but that's also not the point," Hotch sighed, frustrated. "No matter if it were her or anyone else, I don't want Jack to forget his mom or worse, to think I've forgotten her. I can't just bring another person into this now, maybe ever."

And all of that, Hotch hoped against hope that it  _ would _ be her. 

Though they hadn't really seen each other much since his rut, they texted nearly constantly, and the brief moments of happiness he felt when he opened her messages was beyond compare. Unlike with Haley, there was no pressure to provide an immediate response or a truly meaningful one-- their casual conversation was just a comfort that he could indulge in when he chose. That simple freedom was invaluable to him, as was their easy friendship.

Having said that, he wasn't sure that she could be a mate to him, a mother to Jack, and the free spirit that he was finding she was. Maybe there was a reason she was unattached. Maybe she preferred it that way. 

"You know what I think?" Rossi asked, crossing his arms. 

"No, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyway," Hotch replied, cracking a smile. 

"I think you're overthinking it, and if you miss an opportunity to be with  _ whoever  _ it is, I think you'd be making a mistake," Rossi replied matter-of-factly. 

Hotch sighed, knowing deep down that Rossi was right. 

"If I ever find out who it is, I'll be sure to take that into consideration."

"Hey Hotch?"

"Yes?"

"You're a rotten liar."

At that, Hotch couldn't help but laugh.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry for such a tiny chapter (not really)

**Hopscotch:** _I have been putting dimes in a jar for every time that Morgan calls an unsub a sonofabitch, and quarters in another when Reid doesn't notice a girl hitting on him._

(Y/n) grinned as she typed back.

**(Y/n):** _ Oh? And how much money do you have saved up? _

**Hopscotch:** _ Since last week? $30. _

**(Y/n):** _ Vacation money? _

**Hopscotch:** _ What is a vacation? _

(Y/n) actually laughed out loud.

**(Y/n):** _ There's always a chance for a one day getaway. Maybe a little beach trip, or a picnic in a park you've never been to before. _

**Hopscotch:** _ How do you always think of such amazing things? You always have the best ideas. _

**(Y/n):** _ Because I do nothing but kick sad bastards out of bars, and loneliness breeds creativity.  _

**Hopscotch:** _I wouldn't imagine someone like you would ever be lonely._

**Hopscotch:** _ I mean, I don't know why anyone would  _ not  _ want to be around you  _

**Hopscotch:** _ I'm not making this better, am I? _

No, he wasn't, but (y/n)'s heart was beating fast as she considered the implications of those messages. 

**(Y/n):** _ No, but I'm certain you're giving me more credit than I'm due. _

**Hopscotch:** _ Doubtful, since you're staying up past your bedtime just to talk to me.  _

(Y/n) looked up to her window, through which there were rays of light just beginning to beam through. 

**Hopscotch:** _ Speaking of which, you really should be getting some sleep. _

**(Y/n):** _ What is sleep? _

**Hopscotch:** _ Get to bed right now, young lady, or I won't text you again until I'm sure you've had some rest.  _

**(Y/n):** _ Fine,  _ dad _. I'm going to bed.  _

**Hopscotch:** _ That's more like it. Get some rest, my dear. _

(Y/n) flopped backwards on her bed, knowing she was not going to get a wink of sleep for thinking about a certain FBI agent that refused to stop running around in circles in her thoughts.

(And no matter  _ how _ many muscles Derek Morgan had or what Garcia thought about them, Hotch was still the real guns.)


	5. Chapter 5

It was around 2:30 A.M. and Hotch wanted to be anywhere but home.

It was the case-- the terrible,  _ haunting _ case-- someone else's dead wife, someone else's wounded child, another person's personal horror show, and yet somehow Hotch's as well. Ordinarily he would want to rush home to Jack, to his reason for coming back from cases at all, but right now it was all too much. 

Hotch wanted very badly to be held.

At first, he had no idea where he was going. Aimlessly, he drove around until he came to a terrible (yet recognizable) neighborhood, and Hotch knew what he wanted.

What he needed.

It only took a couple knocks before (y/n) opened the door, baseball bat in hand. 

"Wh- Hotch, are you-- it's 2:00 A.M.," she groaned , opening the door for him to come in. "This isn't a neighborhood for your fancy SUV or your suit and tie or… you."

Hotch then noticed the flush on her cheeks and the smell of whiskey in the apartment, and came to a very important conclusion:

(Y/n) was, in fact, quite drunk.

"I can take care of myself and my SUV," Hotch replied, noting the red rims around (y/n)'s eyes and the wetness on her cheeks. "Are you okay?"

"I'm-hic-fine," (y/n) said, swaying slightly as she tossed the aluminum baseball bat across her kitchen. "Are you fine?"

"No," Hotch admitted. "Do you mind if I stay for a little while and just…"

"Not talk?"

Even drunk off her ass, with her hair in a complete mess and her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, (y/n) was as perceptive as ever.

"Yeah, if you don't mind."

"I think I might be a lil' drunk, but I will absolutely let you not talk." (Y/n) plopped down on her couch, patting the seat beside her. "We can not talk. Or I can talk. Or we could eat if you get hungry."

Hotch shook his head. "Not talking is fine."

So there they sat, he and (y/n), on a ratty couch in her tiny apartment, with Hotch's suit jacket, belt, and tie flung onto the coffee table, and an unspoken, indescribable emotion shared between them. The horror, fear, and loathing in Hotch's heart never lessened, but when (y/n) scooted up close and wrapped her arms around him, it somehow became more bearable. Her scent alone, even altered by drink, was comforting, and his every muscle relaxed into her touch. To accommodate the awkward angle caused by the couch, (y/n) eventually just pulled Hotch into laying down onto the couch, their bodies nigh inseparable. 

Hotch just let whatever was going to happen happen. He felt as though he were in liquid, numb, and yet overwhelmed and submerged. The only thing that kept him grounded was the little stritch-scratches (y/n) was making with her nails through the hair at the back of his head, and her leg thrown over his hip. It was impossible to tell how long they stayed there-- minutes, hours, he knew not which-- but (y/n) only spoke once before they both fell asleep.

"I feel you," she said, pressing a hand against his chest. "I feel… you."

It wasn't the sort of 'I feel you' that was common in everyday slang, but an honest, concentrated, 'I feel you', referring to the touching of hearts, minds, and bodies. Hotch knew that was what he needed to hear. He was  _ felt _ and  _ understood _ and  _ forgiven _ . He was forgiven for killing the man that killed the mother of his child, forgiven for seeing into the worst minds in the nation, forgiven for not being a better father, better husband, better man. Here, he could lay those burdens down and just rest without fear. Here, nothing was expected of him.

The last thing he thought before he drifted off to sleep was whether or not (y/n) knew just how incredible she truly, truly was. 

  
  


***

  
  


When (y/n) woke, it was late in the afternoon, and her head was pounding out of her skull. 

_ Ugh, I need to lay off the booze _ , she mentally chided herself.  _ People are going to start talking. _

The events of the night before came slowly back to (y/n)'s mind as she fixed her breakfast, backtracking in her mind to figure out how the smell of Aaron Hotchner got in her apartment, along with a little note apologizing for having to leave for work and promising to call and check in later. 

His scent still clung to her clothes, and after inhaling deeply once or twice, (y/n) remembered how broken, torn, and upset Hotch had seemed, and how she could do nothing but hold him to her in hopes that she could cuddle the pain away. She hoped he hadn't mistaken her for a lush-- she really was just trying to comfort him the best way she could. Moreover, she wished she knew how often he came home feeling that terrible, and how many times he needed someone to just be with him and no one did. 

_ Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. _

(Y/n) fumbled for her phone, which hadn't made it out of her bag. She unlocked it to see a couple messages from Hotch and one from Garcia.

**Pretty Penny:** _ Who are you and what did you do with Hotch? He's as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. _

**Hopscotch:** _ I'm sorry for dropping in so suddenly last night and leaving so early, but we had another case. _

**Hopscotch:** _I'd really like to discuss things in person, so as not to misconstrue anything, but I'm in Texas for the next however long they need me here._

(Y/n) sighed, rubbing her eyes to try and clear her bleary head. 

**(Y/n):** _ It's no problem- not like I'm going anywhere. We don't even really have to talk about it if you don't want to. I'm not making any assumptions, and I'm always here for you whenever and whatever you need.  _

(Y/n) didn't expect a reply any time soon. Hotch was usually busy for most of the day anyway, and it was about time for her to go shower and get presentable enough for her shift, so she padded down the tiny hall to her shower to hopefully sort everything out in her mind.

  
  


***

  
  


"Hotch, I have never  _ seen  _ you this out of sorts," Morgan hissed, seething that Hotch had snapped on a witness the way he had. "What is  _ with _ you?" 

Hotch sighed, an action that he found himself repeating depressingly often. He was loathe to explain himself, but he felt that Morgan was owed an explanation for the mess Hotch had made for the team.

"I have been… distracted," Hotch admitted, showing his palm. "I know you already knew that, but it's a problem that keeps me up late at night and my instincts… They're driving me wild. I feel like an animal."

It was true, every last word. Hotch couldn't think, couldn't  _ breathe _ , without his every thought centered on  _ mate, mate, mate _ . Who it was, he couldn't say, but his skin crawled with want every second of every day. He'd heard the stories about the initial urges, but he didn't think they'd be… quite like this. 

Morgan flashed a wry smile at him. "We  _ are _ animals. But that's no excuse."

"I didn't say it was. I just-- I can't focus, not like this." Hotch felt like punching himself in the face. "I'm fighting it. I don't want to find them, at least not yet, but my body is fighting my mind every step of the way to make it happen. I want to talk to someone about it, to see what she thinks I should do, but…"

"Why not ask one of us?" Morgan asked, narrowing his brows in suspicion. "It's not like we don't know you better than anyone."

"For that very reason," Hotch replied evenly, with a level stare. "I need to talk to someone removed from the situation, someone who has nothing to gain or lose from it."

"And she's several states away," Morgan nodded knowingly. "Tell me-- is the person in question the girl Penelope doesn't shut up about?"

Hotch nodded.

"I think you should consider taking a few days off to sort yourself out, at least when we get back if not immediately." Morgan fixed him with an almost pained look. "If not for your sake, then ours. One simple mistake…"

"Of course."

_ God, this is going to be a bitch of a case. _

  
  
  


***

  
  


About two weeks after the "I want to talk in person" text, (y/n) got the more serious and slightly more stressful, "let's make plans to talk in person" text from Hotch. 

**(Y/n):** _ Yeah, I'm off next Friday. Dinner? _

**Hopscotch:** _ Sounds fine, but would you mind coming to my place? I'd rather discuss things in private.  _

(Y/n) swallowed thickly, wondering what on earth was that important.

**(Y/n):** _ Great! I'll be there. _

**Hopscotch:** _ I'm looking forward to it. Don't worry about finding my place- I'll just pick you up. _

_ I'm glad someone is looking forward to it, _ (y/n) thought wryly as she marked the day on her calendar, a habit she had begrudgingly picked up in her adult life. For the duration of the week, the marked date seemed to mock her, looking as if, with its circled number and scrawled reminder, it was somehow mocking her. 


	6. Chapter 6

Hotch knew he'd been twitchy all day, but he couldn't help it. No matter how much he explained to himself that this was not  _ that _ kind of dinner date, he couldn't seem to conduct himself in any other manner than one similar to a fifteen year-old boy on his first date. No amount of stern self-talk was any good at consoling him, so of course he was unsure of how to respond to Garcia when she asked if he was nervous about his house guest this evening.

"No, I'm not nervous, why would I be nervous?" Hotch asked, genuinely confused. "It's not like I'm having dinner with a killer, and even if I was, it's not that big of a deal."

"Well, that's a really good thing," Garcia laughed, and alarm bells rang like cymbals falling from a dump truck in Hotch's brain.

"Why do you say that?" Hotch asked slowly, enunciating every syllable as his pulse quickened with every moment.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like  _ that _ , I mean, she's not like… Like what we deal with," Garcia backpedaled, bordering on panic. "I just… Forget I said anything, Hotch, really, it's nothing."

"If it was nothing, you wouldn't be panicking right now," Hotch all but snarled. "You let me leave  _ my son _ with someone that, to my understanding, you are implying is a killer. "

Garcia visibly deflated, eyes sad and hurt, but resigned. "A killer, yes, but not a murderer, never that, Hotch, you don't understand--"

White-hot rage boiled in Hotch's chest. "I understand full well, Garcia," he snapped as he grabbed his coat and bag. "You and I will have a discussion about this later." 

Beyond furious, Hotch stormed out of the office, unable to think of anything but the bile in his throat and the searing pain in his palm.

  
  


***

  
  


(Y/n) wasn't exactly sure what she was expecting from Hotch when he came to pick her up, but it was pretty safe to say that "not this" was a pretty accurate description.

"Who the hell are you?" Hotch growled as soon as she opened the door.

" _ What _ ?"(Y/n) had no idea how she was supposed to respond to that, no idea at all, nor what would have brought such incivility to her doorstep.

Nevertheless, reasonable or not, that incivility persisted, and without prejudice.

"Who the hell  _ are _ you?" he demanded once more, towering over her and into her space. Frightened, (y/n) stumbled backwards until she bumped into her counter.

"I don't understand," she quivered, heart pounding. "Hotch, I don't understand, I--"

"I don't understand either," he raged, eyes aflame. "I don't understand how I couldn't see it, how I trusted you so easily when you're the kind of person I fight against every day, so again I ask you,  _ who are you? _ "

(Y/n)'s heart sunk to her stomach. He knew. He  _ knew _ . She wanted to cry, to puke, maybe even die. Death would certainly have been easier to bear than facing the truth.

"I'm just a girl who ran away to start over," she replied, trembling. "Hotch, I swear to you that I am as simple as you thought I was. Whatever you heard, whatever you're thinking, it isn't what it seems."

"Then explain yourself."

(Y/n) flinched hard, her fear quickly hardening into anger. This man, this  _ alpha _ barged into her home, confronted her with her past for no real reason at all, and proceeded to demand an explanation from her. What right did he have to demand  _ anything _ of her? What did he even presume to know about her or her past?

"Explain what?" she countered, holding herself a little taller, her hands gripping the counter behind her. 

"Explain why you would allow me to place my son in your care without telling me who and what you are." Hotch was livid, his chest heaving.

(Y/n) only laughed bitterly, and only just restrained herself from spitting in his face. 

" _ You _ came to _ my apartment  _ in  _ rut _ ,  _ you _ begged me for help,  _ you _ were the one to initiate every single interaction we have ever had, and you have the  _ audacity _ to ask me to  _ explain myself? _ " (Y/n) hissed angrily, leaning into Hotch's glare like she could will it into submission. "Are you even listening to yourself? I had every right to gut you like a fish right where you stood just for putting me in danger of your rut as an omega."

"Is that what you did to the last person to ask you for help?"

Something inside (y/n) crumbled every so slightly, but she refused to falter. "That's not fair. You have no right to speak to me that way."

"Don't I?" Hotch's very expression was one of loathing and betrayal and  _ hurt _ , and (y/n) wanted so badly to turn away, but he'd pinned her there like he was a predator and she was his prey. Distantly, she wondered if that was what it was like to be in the interrogation room with him when he was hell-bent on a confession. 

"Aaron," her voice cracked, and so did her will.

" _ No _ ," he rasped, finally backing away from her. "Don't ' _ Aaron _ ' me. You don't get that kind of advantage."

"Wha--  _ Advantage _ ? What do you think this is, a shitty harlequin novel?" (y/n) demanded, advancing on him as he had advanced upon her only minutes before. 

"You are a liar," he declared with unmatched finality. "You are much,  _ much _ more than I thought you were."

"Get out," (y/n) barked, pushing him in the chest. "Get the  _ fuck _ out of my apartment you piece of dog-shit  _ alpha, _ and don't you  _ ever  _ fucking come back here with that shit! You dont fucking  _ know  _ me like that you narc bastard, fucking  _ get _ !"

"Gladly," he replied, and left her standing there full of hate and anger and sorrow and bitterness. 

As soon as his SUV was out of sight, (y/n) slammed her door shut and slumped to the floor against it and cried. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


A hurricane of emotions was ripping through Hotch as he drank whiskey that (y/n) said matched the color of his eyes.

(Y/n). What a conundrum.

Hotch was ashamed of how he'd acted. He hasn't truly known anything about the situation, and like a fool, like a  _ bonehead alpha, _ as she would say, he'd let his instincts and emotions drive him into being a complete and utter ass. Worse than an ass. There wasn't really a term for it. (Y/n) was right-- he'd acted as though he were a character in a shitty harlequin novel and he hated himself for it. 

And the thing was, it wasn't even about Jack, or about the fact that (y/n) had ended someone's life-- it was about  _ him _ , about Hotch. Why hadn't she told  _ him _ , why hadn't  _ he _ deduced it, and most of all, what could  _ he  _ have done to change it anyway? It was all, every bit about him. 

It was now, with the 20/20 vision of his hindsight, obscured ever so slightly by the liquor coursing through his veins, that he wondered what the real story was, what had happened. (Y/n), sweet, open, welcoming (y/n), the woman most dear to him, by far his closest (willing) confidante-- what had happened to her?  _ Who _ , rather, had happened to her? Now that he was out of his initial shock, he knew that (y/n) couldn't possibly be as cold-blooded as he previously thought-- not if he hadn't been completely and utterly deceived, and if her reaction was anything to go by, he probably wasn't. 

Drunk and incapable of much more than hiccuping and feeling nauseous, Hotch stared down at the rose on his palm, and he had the wild urge to carve it out. He hated the damn spiteful thing, hated these urges, hated himself. If he could only have been mates with Haley, maybe they could've worked things out, and he wouldn't be in this mess anyway. If only he was a different person, he could have a normal job and a normal life and a normal relationship. If it hadn't been for him, Haley wouldn't have died. And maybe, just maybe, if he wasn't such a bonehead alpha, he would never have destroyed his relationship with the only person he felt comfortable talking to about it.

However, as he had almost always done, he suppressed his urges and stared at his phone in hopes that maybe something bad was about to happen, and that something bad might just require the bureau to call him in. 


	7. Chapter 7

Penelope Garcia had absolutely no idea what to do with this gigantic mess. 

Hotch was a wreck. He never followed through on the "talk" they were supposed to have-- what was worse, he seemed completely defeated, deflated, and discouraged. He came in every day just like he was supposed to, he did his job, always just like he was supposed to do, but there was a hollowness to his proficiency, a deep and powerful anguish similar to when he'd lost Haley. No matter how many weeks went by, nothing changed, and Garcia's glitter didn't seem to shine quite as bright, knowing that she'd been part of the whole affair. 

And if it was possible, (y/n) was faring even worse. 

After their last conversation, Garcia knew it was Bad again. She'd heard the same thing again and again-- "I don't hate him, Penny, I don't I don't hate him but it makes me  _ so angry _ and I'm  _ so hurt _ that I want to die."

Almost every night, Garcia called and checked in on her, and every night, the answer was the same. "I'm fine. Dig up that file and give it to him. I don't care who you have to piss off to do it,  _ get that file _ . I want him to know. Get my account of it too, my testimony, I want him to know every detail, Garcia. Every last detail."

It had taken a while, but Garcia had dug up the file, found all the details, and now she had a decision to make. 

Would it even be fair to  _ anyone _ to give Hotch that file?

At the end of the day, when they were all ready to go, Garcia decided that fairness didn't matter-- (y/n)'s wishes, truth, and honesty did. So she walked up to Hotch's desk, looked into his hollow eyes, and handed him the file.

"(Y/n) wanted me to give this to you," she told him, laying the file on his desk. "I'm really sorry, but for the record, she doesn't hate you."

"Thanks, Garcia," he replied, not even meeting her eyes. "Go home, get some rest. We all need it."

_ God, he's just like a robot, _ she frowned, perturbed.  _ He's barely functioning. _

"Yes sir," Garcia said, fighting back tears. "Have a good night."

Garcia did, in fact, go home that night, but not before she was sure Hotch took the file she'd given him as he left. Now, she'd done her part-- it was Hotch's turn to do his.

  
  


***

  
  


(Y/n) knew her heat wasn't due for another week, but her body sure wasn't complying with her schedule at all. 

Her skin crawled and it was hot, everywhere was  _ so hot,  _ and the room was spinning. Nausea and cramps wracked her body, more so than usual, and need burned low in her belly. She tried to find her phone, but her vision was blurry and she could hardly stand, so she just gave up and laid back down on her couch, where she had slept the night before, hating herself for loving the smell of Hotch's scent that lingered there still. 

_ I have no food here to eat _ , she thought distantly as her breathing quickened.  _ I don't have any bottles of water, and I'm not sure I can even make it to the kitchen without falling or hurting myself. And furthermore, I don't even have any ... equipment.  _

(Y/n) really hoped Garcia would call like she did every night. Even if (y/n) wasn't conscious enough to answer, she would know that something was wrong, and if (y/n) was right about the symptoms, something was very wrong.

She was heatsick, and didn't have a lot of time before she'd develop a fever, chills, and a migraine, and eventually much, much worse symptoms if she didn't get help. 

For one ugly, awful, desperate moment, she wondered if she'd finally die. The thought wasn't averse to her-- she only wished she could see Hotch one last time, just to know if he was going through the same hell she had been. 

_ Perhaps not, _ she thought as a wave of nausea hit her once more.  _ Perhaps not.  _

  
  


***

  
  


"She's not answering," Penelope said, panic rising in her throat. "Derek, she isn't answering, she  _ always  _ answers!"

Morgan shrugged, nonchalant. "She's probably busy. Or her phone might be dead."

"No, you don't understand, her phone isn't dead because it's still ringing and she and I had a rule when we were roommates. No matter what, always answer. If not, it's an emergency," she replied, chewing her lip nervously. "What should I do?"

"I think Hotch drives by that neighborhood on the way to work," Morgan suggested halfheartedly.

"You really think that's a good idea?" 

"I think if something doesn't change with him soon, he'll break and move to some desk job he can do in his sleep."

That settled it for Garcia. She called Hotch as fast as her neon manicured nails could dial.

"Hey, yeah, emergency, and you're not going to like it, but I need you to put on your altruistic big-boy pants and handle it…"

  
  


***

  
  


Hotch was having the worst morning of the century, and that wasn't even an understatement.

The night before, he'd read the file Garcia had given him, and he'd been sick all night. The words had haunted his dreams, and he'd felt sick to his stomach just thinking about it. 

_ "He came during my heat, three cycles in a row,"  _ her testimony had read.  _ "And he raped me repeatedly for the entire week, and I was unable to escape from him each time. On the fourth time he was to visit, I was irrational with fear and I waited for him there with a shotgun." _

She'd shot her dance instructor, who had raped and abused her, three times in the face with a pump-action rifle, and then sat there beside the body, numb with shock, until the authorities came. It was a gruesome story, but not one that was uncommon. It made Hotch want to vomit. No wonder (y/n)'d thrown a plate at him when he'd burst into her apartment, smelling of alpha rut. 

And now that he'd held his food down well enough to go home for a dinner break, he got a call from Garcia that made him feel even worse.

_ "I'm worried about (y/n), Hotch, she hasn't answered her phone and I know she's having an emergency, but I'm not sure what kind. Will you please stop by there on your way back from work?" _

_ "Of course,"  _ he'd replied, like an idiot. 

So now he was on his way to (y/n)'s place, miserable and tired, wishing there was someone, anyone else to take his place, but there was no one that he trusted with the task, including himself, so onward he drove, unable to conjure a reason not to. 

He arrived at her apartment, steeled his nerves, and knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Maybe she hadn't heard it? Hotch decided to try to knock harder. If he was going to do a dumb thing, he was going to commit fully to it.

_ Bang, bang, bang. _

Nothing.

That was worrisome.

"(Y/n," he yelled, in between banging on the door. "I know you don't want to talk to me, but just yell out and tell me you're okay and I'll go away."

Nothing. 

The blinds on the windows were closed, and they were locked just as tightly as the doors. The neighbors weren't home, so Hotch was left one alternative:

Break down that door. 

It was pretty easy to bust down the door-- it didn't have a deadbolt and the screws attaching the door to the frame were faulty. Only a couple of blows to his shoulder and the door caved in, granting him entrance and the ability to sniff out the situation.

The situation, as it was, was bad.

The moment his foot stepped over the threshold, all he could smell was (y/n) and her urgent desire. There was no mistaking it-- she was deep in heat, knocked out cold on the couch. 

Cautiously, he approached her, and subconsciously, her body responded to his presence with a groan deep in her chest. It was a strained, needy sound, and for the first time, Hotch felt as though he would lose himself if he so much as touched her skin, even to shake her into consciousness. 

"(Y/n)," he called out to her, shaking ever so slightly. "(Y/n), I need you to wake up. I don't want to touch you, but I need to know you're okay."

No response. 

"(Y/n)." Hotch walked closer to her as she whimpered, and touched her brow to find it fevered. 

_ Heatsickness,  _ he thought with despair, giving her an experimental shake. Slowly, one of her eyelids fluttered open, then the other, and she took a shallow breath before attempting a half-smile.

"You," she said simply, letting loose a shell of a laugh. 

"Me," Hotch agreed. "What do you need?"

Weakly, she took his hand and rested it fully against her breast. 

"Just to lessen the symptoms to buy us some time," she breathed, and Hotch could see that her pupils were blown wide. 

"I can't do that," Hotch rasped, his voice like sandpaper on stone. "You know why I can't do that, not right now, not when you can't properly…"

"Aaron Hotchner," she all but snarled, lunging forward to grip his shirt in her fist. "I give you my consent to do what you will with me so that my fever breaks and we can all live to have an awkward conversation about it later."

For a moment, Hotch's conscience and his desire fought a hard battle, but as usual whenever (y/n) was involved, his desire won out, and he indulged himself in what he'd tried to suppress even thinking about many, many times. 

Slowly, he began to knead at her breasts over her shirt (she had apparently forgone a bra) and the keen that she let out at his touch when straight to his cock. He all but salivated as he lifted the shirt, determined to be as gentle and as loving as possible with her-- with every touch was an apology for his wrongs, an apology for the wrongs of another, and a simple expression of deep, unwavering affection. 

He had the completely irrational desire to kiss her. 

Instead, he busied his mouth talking, like an idiot. 

"You're going to have to tell me what you want," he told (y/n), stroking down her sides once her shirt had been flung across the room. "I will not go farther than you give me explicit permission to."

"Oh for  _ fuck's sake _ ," she growled, unnecessarily vexed as her slick wet through to the couch. "Did you not pay  _ any _ attention in Sex Ed?"

Hotch had not, in fact, paid attention in Sex Ed, and had married a beta who didn't even have heats, much less heatsickness, but Hoth figured that there was only one good solution to heatsickness. 

She would have to orgasm to stave off the heat for a moment, and then use that valuable time to get her to a hospital.

"Alright, fine." Hotch lowered himself to his knees. Nodding to her panties, he asked, "May I? With my--"

"If you don't touch me with  _ something _ there in about half a second, I will use all of my remaining energy to sit on your _ face _ ," (y/n) hissed, and Hotch needed no further encouragement. Without further ado, he put a pin in that mental image and lowered his mouth to her wet and willing cunt. 

Hotch had never had sex with omega, or really anyone other than Haley, but he'd always heard how fantastic and wonderful it was, how kinky and alluring an omega in heat could be, but he'd never believed the hype until now. Just the way her slick taste-- the way it wet all the way down to his chin, dripping down her thighs-- was so fucking sexy he could hardly restrainhimself. He'd never wanted anything as much as he wanted to pound into (y/n) right here and fill her with his knot, but he was determined to do only what he must at the best quality he could manage for the sake of their already tattered friendship, and if that meant going home and jerking it the memory of the first and last time he would have her this way, then that was what he'd have to do. 

One long finger, then two and three, he slipped into her, and she gasped in pleasure as she drew ever nearer to orgasm. It was hypnotic, the way she pushed down don't his fingers, her moans and sighs, just...  _ her. _ He was in awe of her, all of her, and Hotch knew that if he died the minute he got her safely to a doctor, he would die a happy man, having seen the most beautiful thing there was in all the world.

One, two, three more thrusts, and (y/n) was lost. She came undone, and as she came down from her high, Hotch was very unashamedly licking the slick from his fingers without looking away from her for a moment.

"You didn't really have to go all…  _ overboard  _ like that," she gasped, limp as a wet noodle.

"Yes, I did," Hotch replied gently, kissing her forehead. "And, what's more, I wanted to. You deserve the very best of what I can offer, and nothing less."

"Well, that's very sweet of you," she grimaced, pulling herself up into a sitting position. "But I really need some water and/or gatorade now and some snacks, and I can make it from here."

Hotch was dumbfounded.

"(Y/n), you need a  _ hospital _ ."

She frowned, irritated. "Hospitals are for people with insurance."

"I'll pay." The reply was instant, reflexive. 

(Y/n)'s frown deepened. "You are  _ not _ my sugar daddy."

"No, but I  _ am _ your friend, and I care about you," Hotch replied, standing and brushing off his pants. "Consider it the beginning of many, many apologies to make up for what happened when I was last here."

"I am absolutely too sober to have this conversation," (y/n) groaned. "Whatever, Aaron do what you want."

_ Oh boy, I  _ **_wish_ ** , he thought, but kept silent as he helped (y/n) off the couch and into his SUV, making sure to grab her some fluids to drink on their way to the hospital.

This was turning out to be much less of a disaster than it could have been, but Hotch wasn't out of the woods yet-- they still needed to have a rather extensive and awkward conversation after this whole affair was at an end and their pheromones weren't fucking with them. 

But for now, Hotch just focused on the road and very happily flipped on his sirens, much to (y/n)'s irritation.

  
  


***

"We need to talk."

"Mmm."

"That's not talking."

(Y/n) sighed. She knew this was going to come, and she'd been dreading it, and, if she could help it, she was going to avoid the  _ hell _ out of it. 

"Yeah, Hotch, it isn't. What do you have to say?'"

He frowned at her like she was a particularly difficult puzzle that he just couldn't figure out, and (y/n) fought the urge to throw her hospital cup at him.

"That I'm sorry, and… and thank you for letting me read that case," he replied with sad, tired eyes. "And that I'm a fool and a hypocrite and that I love and value your friendship beyond anything else in my life right now."

(Y/n) was shocked at his sincerity. "I forgive you," she told him, reaching out to touch his hand. "And not to be rude, but I feel like it would be a bit bitchy if I didn't after this evening."

_ You give  _ amazing _ oral, _ she wanted to add, but thought better of it. This whole heat thing really was a pain-- she wanted him again so badly that she could hardly stand it, but they were pumping her full of anti-whatever that would make her sensible and lucid for the time being. 

Hotch chuckled a little, amber eyes bright and shining. "Well, whatever the reason, I'm glad you can find it in yourself to forgive me. I don't know that I would have in your shoes."

"Who's to say?" (Y/n) shrugged. "I'm just glad you're here, now. I'm- I'm glad it was you."

"Me too."

And just like that, all was right with the world once more. Now at ease, (y/n) relaxed against the hospital bed, and smiled at Hotch, who smiled back, until she fell asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hopscotch:** _ Can you watch Jack today? _

**Hopscotch:** _Just until I get off work._

**Hopscotch:** _ His aunt wanted a day to herself. _

**Hopscotch:** _ It's okay if you say no. _

(Y/n) laughed and texted in the affirmative, since she was off. 

**Hopscotch:** _Thank you so much. I'll be by in 5 mins._

(Y/n) would have told Hotch yes even if she hadn't been off-- it was increasingly difficult so say no to a chance at seeing him since the rose marking on her shoulder had appeared. Every moment, she wanted to be by his side, to touch him, to breathe in the scent of him-- it was all she could do not to tell him that she was made for him, that he was made for her. It was maddening, but… manageable. 

When she first noticed the mark, she had come home from the hospital and was undressing to take a much-needed shower, only to find that both her dream and nightmare had come true. Hotch was her mate--  _ her mate!!! _ But he'd told her and everyone else that he didn't want to know his mate. Hotch didn't  _ want  _ her, and that was a hard pill to swallow at first, but if (y/n) thought about it, she could almost sort it out in her head to make some sense.

Of course, he would find out about it anyway when the emotional link from the bond snapped in, but until then, she wasn't going to rush into anything. 

Soon, Hotch was there to pick her up, and happy as a lark, (y/n) rode with him to his place in companionable silence. To be in his presence was enough to satisfy the deep-seated itch under her skin, and she could finally relax a little. She took the time to admire the contrast between his dark hair and his white shirt, and the way the corners of his lips were turned up ever so slightly at the ends. 

_ Mate _ , her whole body seemed to sing.  _ My mate. _

It was  _ fantastic _ .

(Of course, outside of that elation, she knew that there was no way he'd ever truly accept the bond, but hey, a girl can dream.)

Quickly, Hotch dropped her off at his place, and after a quick peck on the forehead (as was his new custom, apparently), he was out the door and on the way to save the world.

Was there anything more satisfying in all the world?

Shortly after he left, though, a thrill went up (y/n)'s spine, and she knew, just  _ knew _ something was going to go sour. The feeling was never, ever wrong. She only hoped it wouldn't be anything catastrophic.

  
  


***

  
  


All in all, the day went pretty well for Hotch until he realized that the odd sense of euphoria he was feeling wasn't actually his, in the truest sense of the world. This happiness, this joy, this absolute  _ elation _ he was feeling belonged to an entirely different, yet bafflingly familiar person. 

It was the gentle nudge of (y/n)'s conscious to his own. 

How he knew, Hotch wasn't exactly sure-- somehow, it just seemed obvious that it was  _ her.  _ Undeniably, she was there in his mind, bubbly and loving, obviously having a good time with Jack. Knowing that he couldn't have been mistaken, that meant that undeniably, (y/n) was his mate, and she hadn't told him. 

_ Mate _ , he thought, desperation, joy, and fear intermingled in his stomach.  _ She's my mate _ . 

It was everything he could have ever wished for, and yet… 

Why hadn't she told him?

He felt betrayed. As soon as she knew (for she undoubtedly knew), why didn't she come to him and damn well  _ say _ so? That should've been pretty high up on the list of priorities for her-- it certainly would have been for Hotch. He would've run to her the minute he was sure. In fact, he wanted to do so now, and would have already been out the door if he hadn't had another hour of work to do. So… what gives?

Hotch was able to tolerate exactly thirty minutes of asking himself that question before he slammed the file he was working on shut and all but ran out the door without so much as a word to anyone. He'd just have to apologize to the team later for leaving abruptly-- he had business to take care of.

  
  


***

  
  


(Y/n) wasn't expecting Hotch back home for quite some time, but when he burst through his own front door looking like a hot, windswept mess, who was she to complain? 

"Where is it?" he asked, not pausing to so much as greet her, not out of rudeness, but genuine curiosity. (Y/n) knew, because she could feel it reverberate through her skull as he looked closely at her neck.

"Where's what?" she asked, genuinely confused. 

"The mark, where is it? I know it's around here somewhere-- ah," he grinned as he found the soul mark on her shoulder. Tenderly, he ran his thumb across it, and then kissed it with a feather-light touch of his lips. Then, after a moment of glowing pride, his expression sobered into something like hurt. "Why didn't you tell me?"

(Y/n) shrugged, uncomfortable. "Thought you didn't want me."

" _ What?  _ In what world would I--  _ oh _ ."

(Y/n) grinned sheepishly. "Yeah."

"I guess that is a little bit my fault."

"A little?" (Y/n) teased as he pulled her to him.

"Only a little," he laughed, scooping her up into a bear hug. "You knew the  _ whole time _ you little minx."

"Not the  _ whole  _ time," she protested as Hotch kissed her cheek. "Shouldn't we talk about this anyway?'

He raised a brow at her playfully. "What is there to talk about? I think you feel the same way I do about it."

"Are you really sure though?" (y/n) asked, unable to stop a hint of doubt from creeping into her voice.

Hotch stared at her for a long moment. "(Y/n), you're everything I need. Jack loves you, I love you, and there is no doubt in my mind that you love me too. I can  _ feel it _ , (y/n). At first, I was hesitant, but now…"

(Y/n) nodded, understanding. "I think we should call Jack's aunt and see if she's too busy for a sleepover." 

"I agree."

Jack's aunt, once she knew that situation, was not, in fact, too busy for a sleepover, and it wasn't long after Jack was gone that (y/n) and Hotch were on each other like teenagers at a house party.

"I have been wanting to do this for a very long time," Hotch breathed between kisses, flinging (y/n)'s shirt across the room as she worked to undo his belt. 

"Really?" she giggled breathlessly, intrigued. "How long?"

"Since that rut," he admitted with a slight blush.

(Y/n) laughed. "Well, I suppose you've waited long enough."

"I concur," he purred as he lined himself up with her entrance and  _ pushed _ inside.

_ God _ , it was incredible. He gave her only an instant to adjust, and then he began thrusting slow and deep, then faster and harder, and (y/n)'s eyes rolled back in her head as he leaned forward to bite at the mark on her shoulder, and she couldn't contain a moan. 

Thrust after thrust, Hotch did so much more than just fuck her-- he truly made love to her, conveying his every emotion to her as best he could, taking into consideration her every response and making sure to adjust to what she liked the best.

(Y/n) had never felt more loved in all her life. 

When at last they had finished and (y/n) was pleasantly full of her alpha's knot, she felt Hotch smile into the crook of her neck. 

"If you want, you can come live here with me," he murmured into her sweat-soaked skin. "You'll never have to work another day in your life if you don't want to."

"Mmm, sounds nice," (y/n) mused, rolling the idea around in her head. "I don't think I'd ever be bored with Jack around."

Hotch chuckled. "No, I think not."

In that moment, everything was perfect, and from then on out, everything was that kind of perfect, even when they weren't. 

  
  



End file.
